


somnus

by birdjay



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers Feels, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don’t copy to another site, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Napping, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Sleeping Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 13:21:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20046703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdjay/pseuds/birdjay
Summary: “Oh god, Bucky,” Steve says, moaning. It sends something not-quite nameless shooting down Bucky’s spine to hear his name coming out of Steve’s mouth like that.“You’re so warm.”“That’s me,” Bucky gets out, closing his eyes. He’s gotta nip this feeling in the bud, right now. He’s gotta not do this to himself. Not again. “Try to sleep, okay? It’s a long ways ‘til morning.”----5 times Steve and Bucky fall asleep.





	somnus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoraRochester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraRochester/gifts), [gracelesso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso/gifts).

> dedicated to the above ladies, as they came up with the idea for this fic. i just wrote it. i hope you both enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it.
> 
> thank you to [corarochester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraRochester/works) for beta-ing it, as well!

**ONE**

1938

Their apartment is, not to mince words, abominably shitty. It’s a ramshackle 300 square feet at the very tip-top of a mostly-sound building -- the last available space they could find in Brooklyn that they could both afford and tolerate living in. Unfortunately, there’s no hot water in the flat, and it’s rather quickly becoming apparent there’s no insulation to speak of inside the walls. 

Steve had been so happy about the tiny window in the bedroom, muttering about sunlight and warmth but now the damned thing is an unspeakable evil. It never seems to shut flush, so there’s always a scant half inch still open to the elements. It’s in that tiny, meager half inch that winter’s harshest winds blow right into their apartment. 

The wind whistles as it moves through the space, filling their post-stamp sized bedroom with arctic air. Bucky watches in disbelief as a few actual snowflakes dance in on a harsh breeze. They land on his rough blanket, and melt slowly.

“You can stop being a martyr, you know,” Bucky says, rolling over onto his side to face Steve. He’s in the other bed, pushed up against the inner wall. Bucky can see him shiver from here, and he’s got on Bucky’s old hand-me-down wool Christmas sweater. It’s still a little big on him, just large enough that it hangs off his shoulders if he doesn’t adjust it a million times. Actually, now that Bucky’s looking at him a bit closer, he’s pretty sure Steve’s wearing almost all his clothes at once. It’s not a lot, to be sure, but four shirts, Bucky’s sweater, and two pairs of slacks ought to be enough to keep him warm. Then again, Steve’s got thin skin and terrible circulation.

“‘m n-not bein’ anythin’, Buck,” Steve manages to get out between clacks of his teeth. He’s huddled under all but one of their blankets, too. The sight’s a bit pathetic, honestly. How does Steve’s body not know how to regulate his temperature? It’s ridiculous is what it is, but Bucky’s used to it. He’s been used to it his entire life.

“Uh-huh, and next Friday, I’m goin’ to dinner with Rita Hayworth…” 

“Buck,_ c-c’mon_, Steve whines, bright blue eyes finally peeking over the edge of the mass of blankets. 

“C’mon what, Rogers?” Bucky says, already getting ready to brave the chill in the air. He’s gonna dart across the two whole feet that separate their beds and slide in right behind Steve. They’ve done it before, almost every winter, in fact. There’s nothing wrong with sharing a little body heat in the dead of January. 

“Would you j-just c-c’mere already?” Steve whines, rolling his eyes skyward. “We b-both know you’re g-gonna.”

Bucky huffs out an amused breath -- Steve’s right. He’s not gonna lay here and watch his best friend freeze to death. Not when he can do something about it, and not when doing something about it is actually enjoyable. Bucky would never admit it to anyone, but there’s something about slotting in right next to Steve that seems to just fill a hole inside him. It’s like getting that last puzzle piece in place, like coming home at night. It feels _ right_ to have Steve’s tiny, bony body next to his. 

But he’d never say that out loud.

“Yeah, alright. Shut up about it, wouldya?” Bucky says, grumbling even though he doesn’t mean it. It’s hard to keep the smile off his face as he moves, throwing back his own covers, grabbing them, and quickly closing the distance between him and Steve’s bed. 

The air is like ice outside of the blankets. He hisses as he tries to worm his way into Steve’s bed without moving the covers too much. 

“Jesus, Steve, are you even alive in here?” Bucky asks, feeling the miniscule amount of warmth that Steve had managed to build up on his own. He scoots closer, pushing up against Steve’s back and sliding an arm around him. It’s like hugging a chunk of ice. Three whole seconds pass, and Steve melts back against him.

“Oh god, Bucky,” Steve says, moaning. It sends something not-quite nameless shooting down Bucky’s spine to hear his name coming out of Steve’s mouth like that.“You’re so warm.”

“That’s me,” Bucky gets out, closing his eyes. He’s gotta nip this feeling in the bud, right now. He’s gotta not do this to himself. Not again. “Try to sleep, okay? It’s a long ways ‘til morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Steve whispers, shifting just slightly enough that Bucky can push his nose into Steve’s hair. He smells like that cheap soap they have to buy, a little like sweat, and a lot like that personal something that just makes up _ Steve_. It helps absolutely not at all with the feelings he’s warring with inside himself. “G’night, Buck.”

Bucky just shoves them down further, and mentally slaps a lid on a box labelled DO NOT OPEN. He’ll deal with that approximately never, thanks. He takes a deep breath, and lets it out real slow. 

“Night, Steve.”

**TWO**

1943

“You two have been given rooms for the night,” Peggy says, unceremoniously. “Give the landlady these when you arrive. They’ll secure your place.” She’s holding a small stack of papers in her hands as she speaks, holding them out towards Steve as her sentence draws to a close.

Steve takes them, quickly reading the first few lines silently before tucking them under his arm. He looks up to say something only to find that Peggy’s already disappeared into the mass of people milling about headquarters. Steve stares at the spot where she was standing just moments ago, feeling a little adrift. He was going to ask her to dinner, or dancing or _ something_, but now there was nothing. Not a damn thing.

“C’mon, bud, let’s go…” Bucky says, clamping a hand down on Steve’s elbow, and tugging him away. “You can make eyes at Carter later. I want a bed.”

Steve blinks, attention now snapping onto Bucky. Bucky’s wobbling a little on his feet, and those circles under his eyes look purple now, aging him with fatigue. Steve’s never seen him look so beat-up before. Steve rests his now-huge hand on top of Bucky’s. “You alright?”

Bucky avoids his eye, turning away quickly and pulling Steve behind him. It’s not as easy as it used to be -- Steve takes up a lot more space now. He’s muttering apologies left and right as they weave their way through the crowd of men and women in army green. He steps on someone’s foot, hears a yelp and is barely able to shout a “Sorry!” before Bucky’s yanked him through a doorway and out into the dim light of a mild summer night. As soon as they’re free of the building, Bucky drops his hand from Steve’s arm as if he’s been burned, already walking away from him.

Steve hurries to follow him, swinging up beside him with a concerned look on his face. This isn’t like Bucky. He hasn’t... he hasn’t acted like himself since Azzano. Steve steals a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and finds Bucky looking a bit shell-shocked. He hurriedly looks away.

A mandatory blackout kills all streetlights, but the moon, faint as she is, gives off enough light for them to walk by.

“Y’know, if you asked her out, she’d say yes,” Bucky says, kicking at a loose stone. It rockets off into the night, and pings off something metallic just out of sight.

“I know,” Steve answers, sighing

“So why don’t you?” Bucky asks, flashing a shit-eating grin Steve’s way. The sight is so familiar it jolts him to his core. Steve barely manages to smile back. What happened to him? What happened to his best friend?

Steve makes a noncommittal noise, turning them around another corner. The boarding house is right there. “C’mon, let’s go in,” Steve says, changing the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about Peggy right now. Peggy is the least of his worries, especially when Bucky looks the way he does-- like he’s crumbling away on the inside. 

Bucky follows him in, and stands by the door so Steve can do the talking to the landlady. It’s a short, rather unpleasant conversation that doesn’t end the way either of them particularly want. 

“She has one room,” Steve says, closing the distance between him and Bucky. He’s still holding one set of papers, now slightly crumpled from his fist. 

“One room?” Bucky repeats, face going a little pale. “I thought Carter said…”

“Yeah, she did. I guess there was a misunderstanding or somethin’,” Steve says, running a hand down his face. He nods back towards the landlady lurking behind them. “She did say there was a couch in the room, that we could share. But she wants the army to pay for both of us, then.”

Bucky closes his eyes, and laughs like he’s in pain. “What do we care what the army owes her? I want to sleep, Steve.”

Steve stares at him for a moment, seeing the manic energy very clearly on Bucky’s face. He can also see him try to hide it, try to push it down out of sight so he can pretend everything’s fine. Steve watches him a moment longer, and decides its not worth it, not right this second, to call him out on it. He nods once, turns back to the lady, and they work out a deal.

The room is… not ideal. Neither is the couch, if Steve’s being honest. It’s less a couch and more of a very wide armchair than anything else. They’re both staring at it like it’s going to magically turn into something that it’s not.

“Alright, well, I’ll take the couch, Buck. You take the bed,” Steve says, after a moment of nothing happening.

Bucky turns and gives him a Look with a capital L. Steve intimately remembers this look -- he’s been on the receiving end of it most of his life. Usually it’s because he’d come home bleeding into another one of his good shirts, nose broken for the 80th time. This go around, Steve’s not sure what’s causing it.

“You. You, in that body, are going to sleep on that, are you?” Bucky asks, in a tone of voice that clearly states Steve’s an idiot.

Steve looks down at his brand new, enormous body, and then looks back up at Bucky. “Yeah.”

Bucky looks at him some more, and then rolls his eyes. He throws his arms out in what would normally be considered a shrug, walking away to grab his bag. “Be my guest, Rogers.”

Steve stares at Bucky’s back for a moment. Since when did they not argue about every living thing? It’s not right. They shoulda gone back and forth there, knit-picking about who would have to suffer a night on the world’s tiniest couch. Steve would have ended up on it regardless, because he’s a stubborn bastard, but...but he’s not used to Bucky just _ giving up_.

It’s not right, but he lets it go, because Bucky clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

They get ready for bed in silence, and then before Steve really knows what’s going on, Bucky’s sliding into the bed, and turning off the light. Steve’s left to curl up on the space available to him, unsure of how he’s going to sleep on something so rickety and small.

It’s only after the fourth time Steve rolls over, sending the springs underneath him squeaking again, that Bucky sits up in an exasperated huff. “Steve, _ please_.

“Wha--?” Steve says, surprised.

“Just get over here, will you? We’ll share like we used to,” Bucky spits back, in a pissed-off voice. “You’n’those fuckin’ springs, I swear.”

“Buck, are you sure…?”

“Steven G. Rogers, get in this bed right now ‘fore I get up and drag you here myself,” Bucky says, in a scarily-accurate rendition of his mother. 

Steve blinks at him, in the nothing-light. He can barely make him out, against the bright white of the bed covers. Slowly, Steve peels himself out of the couch, and tip-toes across the bedroom. Bucky flings the covers back just in time for him to slide in beside him. It’s a tight fit, the two of them in this bed, but it’s infinitely better than the couch he’d just been on. 

“Go to sleep, Steve,” Bucky says, rolling away from him to face the opposite side.

Staring at his hunched shoulders, Steve aches with the reality that Bucky doesn’t want his comfort. It’s here for the taking, all he’s got to do is ask, but it’s become increasingly obvious that Bucky’s not going to ask. He’s going to suffer through whatever he’s going through all on his own. Steve wants to ask him what’s going on, what he needs, but he knows he’d get nowhere, that he’d get nothing but Bucky’s back in response. 

Steve sleeps terribly.

**THREE**

1945

The plane hits the water.

Steve is thrown out of his seat, hitting the control board hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

The windows crack with the pressure a second later, and break altogether a moment after that.

Water rushes in, ice cold and numbing.

Panic grabs him by the throat as the water climbs higher and higher, and the view outside his window gets darker and darker as everything sinks further and further down.

He’s thrown forward again when the plane hits bottom.

Water slips into his mouth at the shock, slips into his lungs, and he’s gasping for air and only getting more water.

Everything goes dim.

He sleeps.

**FOUR**

2015

They’re on the road, somewhere in western Europe -- Steve’s lost track of exactly what country they’re in -- when he falls asleep in the back of the car they jacked three cities ago. It’s been a struggle all day not to fall asleep. There’s just something about cars and the way they move that just knocks him out. That, and he hasn’t been getting enough sleep as it is. It’s amazing he hasn’t passed out before this.

Steve’s been asleep for about an hour when Sam finally speaks up. 

“You ever notice he frowns when he sleeps?” he asks, glancing in the rear view mirror. Steve’s leaning against the window, face mushed against the glass. He somehow still looks resolutely pissed off, but Sam figures that’s just what Steve’s resting expression is. It’s always been that way, for as long as Sam’s known him. Not that he’s known him for a particularly long time -- a handful of years, really, but it feels like longer. He assumes that’s another thing about Steve, that people tend to latch on to him no matter how long they’ve known him.

“Yes,” Natasha says, without looking up from her phone. A quick look over proves that she’s on Twitter, of all places. He’s sure she’s got a good reason for it -- she usually does. 

“You got any idea why?” Sam asks, curious. It’s not often they get to talk about Steve, mostly because he’s with them ninety-nine percent of the time. It’s hard to have conversations about someone when they’re right next to you.

Natasha does look up at that, turning to face him with her eyebrows raised. “Really, Wilson?”

“What! It’s a legit question!”

“And it’s one with a very obvious answer, if you chose to think about it for longer than half a second.”

Sam makes a mocking face at her, but reverts back to looking at the road. It’s a whole lot of nothing ahead of them. Just like it was for the last three hours. They’re going to have to stop soon, so Sam can stretch his legs and someone else can drive. If he has to keep this up for much longer, _ he_ might fall asleep due to sheer boredom. 

“Okay, so it’s because of his trauma, you think?” Sam says, after about five minutes of silence. Literally nothing around them has changed. They’re still looking at the same goddamn trees on the same goddamn road. 

“Of course it’s ‘cause of his trauma. You think you’d be real happy about finding out that you slept for 70 years? That your family and friends were gone? That everything you thought you died for ended up being a lie?” Natasha says, raising one immaculate eyebrow. She looks over her shoulder to frown at Steve. Sam follows her gaze in the rearview mirror. Steve hasn’t moved from his spot against the window, but now he’s drooling a bit in his sleep.

Sam blinks at her, and then looks back at the road. “No, I wouldn’t be happy about it. I’d’ve gone insane a long time ago.”

There’s another pause for a few minutes, but this time Natasha breaks it. 

“He’s strong, Sam,” she says, in an odd tone of voice. Sam can’t quite place it. “He’s the strongest man I know.”

“Yeah. I know,” Sam says, with a frown. “Why do you think I joined up with him?”

Natasha flashes a quick, half-amused smile at him. “Same reason I threw in with him, I guess.”

“Probably,” Sam says, with a smothered laugh.

Steve mumbles something in the backseat, and they both go silent. They stay that way for a moment longer, until it’s apparent that he was just talking in his sleep. Sam looks at him in the mirror again, noting that there was a subtle change in his expression. He doesn’t look so furious anymore. If anything, he looks a little frustrated. 

Sam understands -- they’ve been looking for Barnes for six months now. They’ve only found the barest of crumbs. Whatever Barnes is up to, wherever he’s going… it seems like it changes every time they get a new hint. Sam’s not sure they should keep looking -- if he’s gone to this much trouble to be hidden, Barnes doesn’t want to be found, but Steve’s not about to back down, and that means Sam can’t either.

They drive for another hour before Natasha declares an upcoming exit safe enough to stop. It’s a janky, tiny, side-of-the-road town with maybe one store and one restaurant to its name. Sam doesn’t bother to argue -- he just pulls into the restaurant, parks and throws himself out of the car. HIs legs are cramping something fierce. 

Sam stands just outside, and stretches like he’s getting ready for a run. A moment or two later, he knocks his knuckles against the glass, right where Steve’s face is smushed on it. Sam knocks again, watching as Steve’s breath fogs the glass. 

“Rogers!” Sam says, his face close to the window.

Steve startles awake, blue eyes opening wide. He pushes away, shaking himself slightly as he says, “Whaa -- ?” He wipes his mouth, brushing the drool away with the back of his hand.

“Your turn to drive,” Sam answers, with a wide grin. 

Steve rubs a palm over his face, and glares at him.

  


**FIVE**

2016

“Buck, please, you gotta sleep,” Steve whispers, all but begging. They’re back in Brooklyn now -- back in a safe house of Natasha’s. Funnily enough, it’s not too far from the last apartment they shared back before the war. That building was demolished sometime in the 70’s -- he’d looked it up not too long after he’d been defrosted. It wasn’t a loss by any means. He’s not entirely sure how it managed to last that long -- it was basically falling down when they lived there. 

But this place, this place is something else. He’s never lived in a place this outrageously luxurious before. The couches are all soft leather, with huge soft blankets thrown over the backs of them. The living room is about the size of every one of their apartments thrown together. The windows in the one bedroom are floor to ceiling, with velvet curtains to match. It’s ridiculous, the expense of this place. Steve wonders how Natasha manages to afford it, or if she’s just borrowing.

“No,” Bucky says, flatly. He’s wedged himself into the only corner of the flat that has a clear view of the front door and all the windows. Steve gets it. Bucky wants an easy exit should anyone burst into the apartment. But no one knows they’re here. There’s no way anyone could have even an inkling that the Winter Soldier is back in the US. They were so goddamn careful coming back in. So, so careful.

“Buck, you look dead on your feet,” Steve tries, shifting slightly on the edge of the couch. He knows he can’t look much better than Bucky does -- he hasn’t slept soundly in what feels like years. He’s been so worried about Bucky, about his friends. And now that he has him back, right here in front of him, Steve’s worried that if does take time to rest, that he’ll wake up to find an empty apartment. 

“No,” Bucky repeats, not bothering to even look in Steve’s direction. He looks so shaggy, so out of place here in this luxury apartment. His clothing is dirt-splattered and torn, his hair is ragged and greasy. Steve wants to drag him out of the corner, wants to give him a bubble bath, wants to wash his hair with that fancy shampoo Natasha carted around the globe, wants to feed him a solid, warm meal. 

Instead, Steve leans back against the couch cushions with a harsh sigh.

He barely catches it, but Bucky’s gaze darts to him, and a flash of worry flicks over his face. It’s the only real tangible hint that Steve’s gotten that his Bucky, the old Bucky, is still somewhere inside the one he’s got now. Not that it matters -- Steve would take any Bucky he gets without complaint. But knowing that he’s in there somewhere, that lights a fire inside Steve that burns brighter than any spark he’s carried since he woke up.

“What do you need, Buck?” Steve asks, on another whisper. “I can help, if you let me.”

Bucky looks at him for a split second, before looking away again. He takes a breath, and Steve waits. He’s so close to getting through, so close to breaking down the walls Bucky’s built up. All he’s got to do is wait.

But patience has never been his strong suit.

“I…” Bucky says, quiet enough that Steve’s not entirely sure he heard correctly. He waits some more, and is finally rewarded when Bucky’s voice breaks into the silence of the apartment. “I...I’m scared, Steve,” he finishes, closing his eyes. “I’m scared I’m going...that I’m going to wake up and not remember. That I’ll...hurt you. Or someone else.” It looks like every word costs Bucky something dear, like every word has been dragged out of his body by something with claws and teeth. 

“I won’t let you, Buck. You know that,” Steve answers, on a quiet breath. 

Bucky closes his eyes, and nods. It looks, again, so much like the old Bucky that it hurts. It sends his heart aching, an echo of what once was reverberating through his chest. He wants to reach inside himself and still it, just so he doesn’t feel the pain any longer. 

“I’ll stand watch, if you need me to,” Steve whispers, and that, of all things, is what works. 

“Promise?” Bucky asks, sea-grey eyes flicking up towards Steve’s.

“With all my heart and soul, Buck,” Steve says, pouring as much truth as he can into the words.

“Okay,” Bucky says, nodding. He slowly pulls himself up to his feet, and in a few short steps, ends up on the other side of the couch that Steve’s occupying. He curls himself up onto a cushion, knees up against his chest, and while Steve’s watching, Bucky closes his eyes. 

“You don’t want to sleep in a bed, Buck? There’s two here.” 

“No,” Bucky answers, without opening his eyes. 

“Alright, I...I won’t push you,” Steve says, shifting just enough that he can watch Bucky a little better. It’s not creepy, he tells himself, if he’s on guard duty, if he’s keeping him safe. God, Steve thinks, God, that’s my best friend. That face is more familiar than his own. 

It takes less time than he thought it would for Bucky’s breathing to fall into an even rhythm. 

He’s asleep, and suddenly it’s all Steve can do to not cry.

Bucky’s here. Bucky’s here, alive, and he’s _ here_, next to him, and Steve loves him so goddamn much it feels all encompassing. Bucky’s alive, and Steve just wants to hold him so tight against him, so tight that they become one person, one being. He’s lived so long in this world without Bucky in it, without his other half. If he ever was forced to go without Bucky again, Steve’s sure he’d break. He’d shatter into a million pieces.

The tears come before Steve can will them into nothingness. They pour down his cheeks soundlessly, dripping down onto the collar of his shirt until it’s soaked. 

Steve shakes as he cries. 

Goddammit. 

God-fucking-dammit.

How can he possibly be this lucky?

He gets to live, and he gets to have Bucky back, too?

Tears still come, overtaking his ability to breathe. Steve tries to cover it up, tries to breathe normally, but doesn’t quite manage it. He takes in a shaky breath, and slaps a hand over his mouth when it comes out a little more noisely than he means it to. Steve can’t wake Bucky up. Not when it was such a battle to get him to sleep in the first place. Not when he needs the rest as much as he does.

Steve tries to quiet himself. He tries to go to pieces silently, tries not to let Bucky have any awareness of what he’s doing. 

One socked foot presses solidly against Steve's thigh. 

Steve looks over at Bucky, in shock, but Bucky’s still sleeping, or at least pretending to be. It’s enough, though. It’s enough. 

  


**PLUS ONE**

2023

It seems like it isn’t for days after everything that they end up by themselves again. The Avengers (and all their allies) had to lick their wounds, count their dead, and clean up the mess they’d made. It was a process, one that Steve thoroughly disliked, but did anyway. A lot of his life was like that. 

But now, six days after losing Natasha, and three after losing Tony, they were finally, finally alone. Steve’s entire body was one stiff breeze from disintegrating. He was so, so tired. He’d lost friends. He’d lost family. 

It wasn’t the first time he’d lost this much.

It probably wouldn’t be the last time.

It still hurts.

“Steve,” Bucky says, from somewhere in the back of their hotel suite. Pepper had organized it all, between grieving and parenting and who knew what else. The woman was made of steel. Steve himself isn’t even sure what city they’re in. There are a lot of things he isn’t sure about anymore, but the one thing, the one constant thing in his entire goddamn life, is that he needs to be where Bucky is. There’s nothing left that could take him from him. And if something ugly did raise it’s head, Steve would tear its throat out with his teeth. “Steve, come to bed, will you?”

Steve answers in a grunt, and pads through the rooms to find the one that Bucky’s in. 

Bucky’s leaning up against the headboard of an enormous bed, shirt and metal arm off. It’s odd, looking at him like this and knowing he gets to have it. He gets to have all of it, these days. 

“C’mon, you...” Bucky says, in a softer voice. He flicks the covers back, and an echo of memory jolts through Steve. They’d done this before, way back. Back in the war, only back then… back then they’d been denying themselves. 

Steve shucks his shirt off, throws it somewhere behind him. He slides into the bed, and scoots closer to Bucky. Another shift, and Steve glues himself right up against his side. A slight twist, and Steve presses his mouth to Bucky’s. It’s as easy as anything to just...close the space between them. He doesn’t even have to think about it, doesn’t have to worry it’s not wanted, even if they’ve never done anything like this before. 

Bucky doesn’t freeze, doesn’t push him away. He just kisses him back, a pleased sound reverberating through his chest as he does. 

“You need to sleep,” Bucky says, as soon as they pull away from each other. He looks at Steve with such open affection that Steve wonders how he never saw it before. Had they both been blind? How had neither one of them seen? How had no one else noticed?

“I know,” Steve answers, on a sigh. He leans his head against Bucky’s chest, remembering what it was like to be small next to someone who felt so large. He misses it, sometimes, being small. Right now, Steve wishes he fit a little better next to Bucky, that he wasn’t so wide, wasn’t so enormous.

“I won’t leave you,” Bucky says, a promise. It helps, a little, the knowledge. Sure, Steve knew already, of course he knew, but to hear it out loud, that’s something different. Bucky shifts, just enough that he can get his arm around Steve’s shoulders, so he can hold him. Steve feels his mouth press against his hair. His chest grows warm. “Tell me you know that.”

“I know that,” Steve says, closing his eyes. Sleep is _ just there_. He doesn’t have anything to worry about anymore. He can let it take him.

“You’d better,” Bucky says, laughing softly.

“I do!” Steve says, too tired to argue properly. 

“Go to sleep, punk.”

“_You_ go to sleep, ya jerk.”

“I’m trying! But some idiot keeps talkin’,” Bucky says, voice going softer. 

Steve grunts again in answer, and slowly lets go of consciousness. Bucky’s safe. He’s safe. They’re both here, together, and nothing is going to change that. 

Not again.

Not ever again.

  
  
  
  



End file.
